


Hook You Up

by crossroadswrite



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blowjobs, Hooker!Cas, M/M, Minor Character Death, Prostitution, Violence, hooker!Dean, mafia, pimp!Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:17:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossroadswrite/pseuds/crossroadswrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is a prostitue, but he's a classy one at that and Dean's a low class prostitute who gets offered a better place in the food chain. This is the story of how it's a really bad idea to fall in love with another hooker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hook You Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Valyria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valyria/gifts).



Muscle memory is very helpful when you’re a whore. Sometimes all you have to do is get to your knees, open your mouth and let the John grip your hair and use you like a fucktoy. That, and not having a gag reflex. Luckily Castiel has both skills, so the only thing he needs to do right now his spread his legs a little for balance, place a hand on the guy’s hip and let him push and pull his hair, his head bobbing up and down as the dude gets himself off on him. He’s close, Castiel can tell, even though he has never seen this one before. Thrust erratic and filthy moans leaving the guy’s mouth.  
  
Castiel’s jaw is aching a little so he decides to help out the bastard. Flicks his tongue just right, swallows him down until the guy’s dick hits the back of his throat. Castiel twitches his nose, that’s far too close to the guys pubes for his taste. He does it a few more times, breathes steadily through his nose and the guy comes.  
  
He swallows it down like a good whore and waits until the guy’s cock is soft again before he pries the man’s hands off his hair and gets himself up. He wipes his mouth, making sure there’s no come dribbling down his chin and dusts his knees off.  
  
The man is panting a little bit against a wall trying to hurriedly tuck himself in. He thinks his name is Matt or Max, something with an M.  
  
Matt or Max clears his throat and smiles at Cas.  
  
Fuck, he’s going to be one of those.  
  
“So Jimmy. What can I do to see you again?”  
  
Castiel tries is best not to roll his eyes at the man. He hates it when they get clingy or when their ego is so big they immediately think Castiel will want to see them again.  
  
Still, regulars are good for business, even if they are dangerous. Sometimes they get clingy, take liberties, get confused about the type of relationship they are offered.  
  
Castiel takes a card from his pocket, hands it to the guy.  
  
“Just ask for Jimmy.” He supplies, feeling a little bit uncomfortable. He shakes it off.  
  
He is a whore. He can’t afford to be uncomfortable.  
  
“Guess I’ll see you around then.” The man smiles.  
  
Castiel nods once before turning back and exiting the alley.  
  
Ugh, he hates when he has to do this in these kinds of places. He’s better than that now. Usually, he takes his clients in expensive hotels and mansions or in, at least, reasonable motels and parking lots.  
He’s still a whore, but at least now he’s an expensive whore, plaything for closeted heads of corporations and big shot everything, from doctors to lawyers to judges.  
  
Once a month Michael has someone come down here to the trenches and find new meat for the higher ups, something that would please them. That’s why Cas took this John. He was standing against a street lamp in whore boulevard when the car pulled up and the guy rolled the window down and smiled pretty with the promise of money and Castiel is never one to turn down some easy bucks.  
  
There aren’t a lot of manwhores that are old enough to drink at clubs around, so he tries his best to scout for one, since Michael’s firm has a shortage of those.  
  
By now, he has sweet talked two girls into joining his side and meeting up with Michael to be offered the world for their whoring services.  
  
Two pretty things. A short girl with brown hair and pretty cheekbones who calls herself Meg and drawls her words when she talks, giving Castiel an impressive amount of sass. She may be a troublemaker but she’s also damn good at what she does and she’ll probably hold her own. The other one calls herself Lisa and she’s tall and gorgeous with silky hair and the sob story about being a single mom and having to raise some brat named Ben. She’s gonna be a big hit, since many of Castiel’s clients like to play sugar daddy.  
  
They’re the lucky ones, all the others get to stay here and get on their knees for truckers or bend over the hood of cars.  
  
He’s almost giving up his search for a good man when he spots him, crossing the street from the motel, wincing when he walks, hands shoved deep in his pockets and some John rolling off in a big car, honking after him.  
  
He’s clearly just got fucked and apparently pretty hard, since the man’s a little on the muscled side.  
  
From here Cas doesn’t have a good view of his face, but the frame alone and the bowlegs that are just begging to be wrapped around someone’s waist gets Cas moving, crossing the street and trying to intercept the man before he disappears into the night.  
  
Luckily the man stops to talk to one of the girls – Pamela, he thinks – on his way, giving Castiel more than enough time to catch up to him.  
  
Castiel taps him lightly on the shoulder making the man wince. He catches wet stains across his back that are not cum and look sickeningly like blood.  
  
The man turns around, steely green eyes looking at Cas “Sorry man, not taking any one else tonight.” He says not sounding a bit apologetic, but he seems to stop himself, does a double take on Castiel, looks him head to toe “Maybe a blowjob, if you can pay.” He concedes with a cocky smile.  
  
Castiel feels tempted. He has money and he’s completely entranced by this man with the countless freckles and pouty lips, that were made to fit around his dick, the greenest eyes framed by long eyelashes, made for coy looks and teasing smiles. Shit, he’s so fucking tempted. He figures he’ll have enough money, pull the man behind the building, maybe kiss him a little before shoving him to his knees and letting him take him.  
  
“Oh, you hit the jackpot Dean-o,” Pamela coos and god damn the woman, only Castiel has this kind of luck “Cassie here is a scouter for the big shots.” She says poking Dean on the side. “Well, have fun kiddo,” she says cheerily, slapping Dean’s ass and pinching Cas’s as she turns away.  
  
The man, Dean, is staring at him, eyebrow quirked in question.  
  
Castiel clears his throat, shakes himself off and extends a hand for Dean to shake.  
  
“Castiel Novak.” He introduces himself, and Dean’s eyebrow climbs higher.  
  
“That your real name?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Dean’s lip quirk up and the takes Cas’s hand in his and shakes firmly “Dean Winchester.” He gives his name back.  
  
Castiel sees the rope burn marks on his wrists and presses his lips together in distaste.  
  
That’s why he couldn’t wait to get the hell off the streets.  
  
“Pamela said you were a scouter. Care to explain?” Dean crosses his arms over his chest.  
  
“I go around to see any good people to recruit.”  
  
“Dude, you sound like you belong with a cult.” Dean snorts and Castiel smiles a little.  
  
“Nothing of the sort, I assure you. We just provide more security and comfort in this specific area of work.”  
  
“You tellin’ me you’re a classy pimp?”  
  
Cas smiles wider “No. I’m telling you I’m a classy whore. And it’s better than this. I’ve been here. I know.”  
  
Dean bites his lip.  
  
“Why are you whoring around, Dean?”  
  
The man sets his jaw “None of your business,” he spits. Castiel holds his hands up.  
  
“Not meaning to pry, but whatever the reason, what I’m offering you brings you more money and the assurance you won’t have rope burns and bloody backs.”  
  
Dean Winchester raises his chin slightly “What’s in it for you?”  
  
“Supply and demand. Our clients demand and require a certain level of discretion and we supply. And twenty three percent of all you earn goes to the boss.”  
  
Dean presses his lips together and Castiel knows he’s got him.  
  
“There has to be a catch.”  
  
“You have to sign a contract, saying if you are caught you cannot fault the company or use it to make a deal. Everything you say against it will not be acceptable in court. And you have to sign for minimum three years,” he finds himself saying, instead of giving the man the easy smile and shrug of shoulder saying that there’s no catch, only a lot of money.  
  
Dean nods his head slowly “Okay. That doesn’t seem so bad. Definitely beats the streets.”  
  
“Good then.” Castiel takes one of the cards he hands out to people from his inside pocket and scrawls his personal phone number on the back “Give me a call tomorrow, around three pm so I’ll know where to pick up you.”  
  
Dean takes the card and flips it over in his hands, raising an eyebrow at it, but not commenting.  
  
“Awesome," he mutters. “See ya tomorrow Cas.” He pockets the card and waves at him, turning his back and walking away.”  
  
Cas frowns at the foreign nickname but decides to let it go and turns to walk away as well.  
  
«»  
  
The minute Michael lays eyes on Dean, he’s in love.  
  
Well, not in love per say. Castiel doesn’t think Michael really has the capacity to love, only to lust and covet.  
  
But the minute he walks in that room with Dean Winchester in tow he can see it clear as day, in the way Michael’s features go from cold detachment to hungry predator. Dean smiles and answers Michael’s questions crudely and signs the piece of paper that basically says for the next three years he’s Michael’s bitch.  
  
Michael holds Castiel back on their way out.  
  
“Castiel. If you would stay for a moment,” he requests. Castiel immediately stops, lets Dean go through the door and tells him to wait for him.  
  
“He’s good, Castiel. Really good.” Michael almost smiles at him and shit if that isn’t the most terrifying thing Castiel has ever seen. The man gets up and moves towards Cas, shark smile on his face an ice blue eyes.  
  
Michael carefully frames Castiel’s face with both his hands, holding just a little too tight, he presses a kiss to Castiel’s lips and whispers threateningly, “Don’t fuck him.” Before he pats him once on the cheek and turns back to sit behind his expensive desk again.  
  
“You may go, Castiel.” Michael dismisses him with a wave of his hand and Castiel bolts out of there as fast as he can.  
  
Dean’s outside waiting for him, leaning over Michael’s secretary’s desk and grinning at Charlie.  
  
He can’t quite catch what they’re saying but by Charlie’s wide hand gestures and slight frown it’s probably something nerdy that completely escapes Castiel’s understanding.  
  
Dean sees him approaching and cuts the conversation with a “Hey, Cas. What did he want?”  
  
Cas shrugs and dismisses it. “Nothing important. You needn’t worry about it.”  
  
Dean smiles kindly, all freckled cheeks and alluring lips stretched over almost perfect white teeth and Castiel thinks that Michael’s order may just be almost impossible to fulfill.  
  
«»  
  
Castiel finds that as soon as someone hears the word whore they immediately think of someone having sex twenty-four/seven when in fact it’s a job like any other. Just not a nine to five job.  
  
They usually work weird hours, but don’t take more than two, maybe three clients a day. Five if it is a busy season or someone calls in sick.  
  
The network Michael has working for him is quite effective. He has a cover website with each whore he has signed in as a legitimate employee for some kind of firm. The website never specifies what it is that they do, but it puts a picture of them on there and a profile specifying what they do. All bullshit, of course.  
  
Michael’s clients choose from there what they’d like and it is delivered to their doorstep. Sometimes he makes inquiries as to what people are looking for in employees for that phony firm and that’s how he knows what he has to fish for in whore boulevard next.  
  
Castiel’s picture is there, along with Dean’s, Meg’s, Balthazar’s, Lisa’s and a shitton of other people who work for Michael.  
  
It’s quite smart if you think of it. Plus, taking such high end costumers also means that Castiel’s pay check is fat and nice enough to land him a good house and a good life. He doesn’t need to sleep in shelters or against dumpsters in dark alleys anymore.  
  
It’s good to be financially secure even if you have to sell your body for it. And yes, Castiel is aware of how fucked up that sounds.  
  
But, meh, not like he cares much at this point.  
  
Today is a good day. Castiel only has one client and Dean called him earlier asking if he’d like to do lunch. So he gets to read a book, maybe watch some television, although he doubts it, and have lunch with the man that smiles pretty at him just because.  
  
Dean asked him to meet outside a little place called the Roadhouse, saying he knows the owner. Castiel refrains from asking if he knows him biblically.  
  
The Roadhouse, it turns out, is quite a nice place, with little booths and a friendly atmosphere even though there are two guys twice Castiel’s size playing pool by one side. It smells heavily of cooked meat, whiskey and old perfume one of his clients uses, Old Spice, he thinks. But yeah, Castiel likes it.  
  
He takes his trench coat off since it seems to be more than an acceptable temperature inside. Not as cold as outside certainly. There must be central heating or something of the sort.  
  
He sits down on one of the high stools next to the counter, tapping softly the on the wooden table top until a pretty blond thing that looks like she could break him in half comes by with a smile and a glint in her eye.  
  
“Hi, I’m Jo. What can I get you?” she leans forward slightly, showing off her cleavage. Boobs were never something Castiel paid much attention to, maybe because of the long exposure to them.  
  
“I’m waiting for someone actually.”  
  
Jo seems to deflate a little, but she still smiles brightly.  
  
“Can I get you anything while you wait Mr…”  
  
“Castiel,” he offers because what the hell, he’s not here on business, his real name is as good as anything.  
  
“Oh!” Jo rubs her hands together, “So you’re Castiel.” She looks like the cat that ate the canary. Castiel leans back slightly on his chair.  
  
“How do you know?”  
  
“Dean mentioned you once or twice or like fifty times in two minutes. Have to say, you are everything he says you are and then some.” She winks.  
  
Castiel doesn’t blush anymore. That’s hardly the most embarrassing or awkward thing someone has said to him.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Joanna Beth, stop harassing the poor man and go get Dean.”  
  
The girl huffs but does what she’s told.  
  
“That girl, I swear.” An older woman approaches the bar, shaking her head slightly “I’m Ellen, Jo’s mom.” She offers her hand and Cas shakes it.  
  
“Castiel.”  
  
“You’re Dean’s friend?” Ellen arches an eyebrow.  
  
“I suppose so.”  
  
“You suppose?”  
  
She leans forward, eyes assessing him and Cas can see where Jo got her looks from.  
  
“Ellen!” Dean steps from a little door behind the counter “Are you giving him the third degree?” he asks, apparently amused by the older woman’s abrasive manners.  
  
“Do I need to?” she crosses her arms over her chest. Dean snorts and shakes his head, kissing her on the cheek and gently pushing her away.  
  
“Don’t you herd me around boy, I’m still capable of kicking your ass.”  
  
Dean salutes with a grin “Yes, m’am.”  
  
Ellen walks away towards another patron to get his order and Dean turns his attention to him.  
  
“I told Benny to make us some burgers, hope that’s okay.” He frowns. “You’re not a vegan or something are you, ‘cause man let me tell you, that’s a deal breaker.”  
  
Cas snorts. “No, I am not a vegan.”  
  
Dean sighs in relief. “Good. So, what can I get you to drink?”  
  
“Whatever’s on tap.”  
  
Dean quickly sets to work, taking a glass from the top shelf behind him and pulling the lever down, spilling beer into the glass with practiced ease. Twirling the glass around and leaning it at the right angle so it’s not all foam.  
  
“You’re good at that,” he says, slightly impressed.  
  
Dean shrugs. “I used to bartend. And I was damn good at it,” he says placing the glass in front of Castiel with a satisfied grin, before he pulls another and starts the process again.  
  
“So why -” whore yourself “- stop?” he asks, tilting his head. He’s curious about this one. Dean seems like the kind of guy who can easily get a job bartending or as an underwear model.  
  
“Sammy wants to go to college and that’s a shitton of money. Bartending or working at Bobby’s salvage yard won’t cut it.”  
  
“And Sammy is…”  
  
Dean grins, puffing up his chest with pride. “My little brother. He’s the smart one. Quick as a flash solving problems. Little shit always won on monopoly though I still think he cheated.”  
  
Castiel takes a sip from his beer. “How does one cheat at monopoly?” He remembers playing it with his sister and it was a lucky game.  
  
“He just does.”  
  
Castiel hums, the corner of his mouth twitching up slightly.  
  
A bell rings behind them and a monster of a man comes out of the door leading to the kitchen, stained apron across his massive chest and a little hat on his head, smiling widely at Dean.  
  
“There you go, sugar,” he drawls in a delicious accent. Castiel always appreciated accents.  
  
“Thanks Benny.”  
  
“No problem. This is Castiel, then?” he asks, pointing his thumb at Cas.  
  
“Yeah, be nice.”  
  
Dean smiles wider. “When am I not nice?” He wipes his hands with the bottom of his apron before turning to Cas. “Hey there, I’m Benny.” He offers him a hand to shake.  
  
“Castiel,” he offers, shaking the man’s hand.  
  
“Let me tell you, that is quite a name.”  
  
“Benny,” Dean chastises.  
  
“That’s okay, Dean. I was named after an angel. Angel of Thursdays. My family was very religious.”  
  
Dean almost chokes because ain’t that just swell. A whore named after an angel. It’s blasphemous.  
  
Benny just smirks. “Take care of our Dean then, angel.” He winks and Dean shoves the bigger man back to the kitchen.  
  
“Stop flirting, you’re not even gay.”  
  
Benny chuckles and goes back to the kitchen, Dean watches his ass while he does so. Castiel has to concur that it’s a nice ass.  
  
“Come on, let’s get a table away from all this harassment.”  
  
“I heard that!” Jo screams from somewhere in the kitchen.  
  
“You were supposed to!” Dean shouts right back, before rounding the bar and motioning for Cas to follow him.  
  
He sits them in a table in a corner where you can see the entire bar and be far enough from prying eyes.  
  
“Your turn,” Dean says, settling down on one side of the table and sliding Cas’s burger towards him.  
  
“Excuse me?” Cas does the same, settling down on his side of the table and setting Dean’s beer in front of him.  
  
“I told you why I’m doing this now it’s your turn.”  
  
He should’ve seen this coming.  
  
“It’s nothing exciting or noteworthy as your love for your brother," he warns him. “I told you my family was extremely religious, and they had an extremely religious freak out when they found out I was gay. Kicked me out of the house. Became homeless and started whoring around until Michael found me. Cleaned me up and put me on display.” He doesn’t look at Dean, decides to grab a couple of napkins and wrap them around his burger, which looks completely decadent. He takes a bite of it before looking back up at Dean.  
  
“That’s really fucked up, man.”  
  
Cas swallows down. “Yes, it is.”  
  
Dean changes the conversation then, gushing about his little brother and a band called Led Zeppelin which Cas needs to listen to ASAP otherwise something terrible will happen. He chats and tells him about how much he enjoyed being a mechanic and how when he was really little he wanted to be a firefighter.  
  
Castiel, in exchange, tells him about his brother and his sister, explaining how they weren’t as close as Dean and Sam seem to be in grand part due to their parents tight control. He tells him about how he likes books and that leads them into talking about Vonnegut and Lord of the Flies and Dean arguing that Fahrenheit 451 wasn’t even that good while Castiel gasps and calls him on his blasphemous words.  
  
He feels lighter when they’re done. Dean as an easy smile on his lips and offers to drive Cas home.  
  
He says yes, because it’s too cold outside and the bus won’t be pass here for the next half hour or so.  
  
They go outside and Dean leads him to a massive car, black and sleek, the word Impala scrawled on one side. It’s old. He doesn’t know cars, but he can tell that it’s old and treasured, in top condition.  
  
Dean smooths his hand over the roof of the car with a fond smile and yup, he’s the kind of guy who’s in a semi-sexual relationship with his car, border lining creepy, but he seems really loving of it, so Cas chooses not to comment. Somehow he has the feeling that if he does so, he’ll have his head chopped off.  
  
“She’s beautiful,” he tells Dean and he practically beams at him.  
  
“Joy of my life. Baby, this is Cas. Cas, this is Baby,” he introduces them, and this time Cas does open his mouth to comment on it, except Dean’s not looking at him anymore. He’s looking over his shoulder, eyes wide and breathing uneven in what Castiel assumes is panic.  
  
“Dean, are you okay?” He doesn’t answer. Just stands there like he’s too afraid to move.  
  
Cas frowns and looks over his back. But there’s nothing there. A woman with a stroller, a teenager with his headphones on, the two giant men from the bar walking away and a man leaning against the Roadhouse’s façade, smoking a cigarette.  
  
There’s nothing that could inspire that level of fear in Dean’s eyes. He turns back to the younger man, tries again.  
  
“Dean!” Dean’s eyes finally shift back to Castiel, and the he breathes deeply. Slow inhale, slow exhale, and smiles.  
  
“Yeah, I’m fine. Get in the car. I’ll drive you home.”  
  
«»  
  
Cas eases Dean into it slowly and carefully making sure every client he takes doesn’t have any weird kinks, like say, tying him up to the roof. He leaves those kinds to himself and takes them off Dean’s shoulders anytime one comes around and requests for Dean specifically.  
  
At first, he doesn’t see what he’s doing. It doesn’t really register that he’s favoring Dean and making it easier on him until he’s tied down, gaged, rope burns in his wrists and ankles and thighs while some Wall Street lawyer is fucking him as hard as he can whispering filthy things that Castiel bets his wife doesn’t know about. And when he does realize what he’s been doing he also realizes that he’s doing it because he cares and that is a problem.  
  
Castiel had that beaten into him early on. He is a whore and all of him belongs to Michael until he dies or until Michael has no more use for him, whichever comes first. Whores cannot afford to care because then they start feeling and it is when they start feeling that they become dangerous.  
  
He remembers one time when he still cared and cared a great deal. Back then, he had already resigned himself to a life as a whore but then Michael had hired a pretty young thing that called himself Samandriel, Alfie for the clients.  
  
Samandriel was possibly the twinkest twink Castiel had ever seen, but he was also smart and funny and had a pretty mouth and floppy hair falling over his eyes. Castiel won’t dare say he loved him, but it was a close thing. Sometimes, when neither of them had clients, they’d sneak to some seedy motel room and show each other a good time, which they were often denied when on the job.  
  
Samandriel liked to be kissed on the neck and just behind his ear. He arched all pretty and whined when Castiel dug his fingers in his hips and sucked. He had slim fingers made for the piano which were just as good around Castiel’s cock.  
  
Alfie worked for Michael for about two years before he decided that he had had enough and wanted out. Especially after one of the clients hurt him and Michael did fuck all about it. Castiel had almost beaten the man responsible for it, but beating judges would not lead him anywhere.  
  
He can remember how Samandriel had burst into Castiel’s room, red welts on his back and heavy breathing, tears threatening to spill over and he’d beg him to run away. “Let’s do it. We can run away together. I can play the piano and you can do whatever you’d like. Please, Castiel.”  
  
Being the dumb fuck Castiel was he said yes and arranged everything for him and Samandriel to get away from this town to somewhere safer where Michael couldn’t have power over them.  
  
He took precautions. Thought every single thing through and all the ways it could go wrong. After a week, Castiel had two train tickets and two suitcases with their belongings ready to go.  
  
Samandriel and him met at the train station, both of them filled with giddiness and nervousness at the perspective of going away.  
  
In the end, it didn’t really matter how sneaky or how many precautions Castiel had taken, because Michael had found out. He had the entire city eating from the palm of his hand.  
  
And to say he was furious would be an understatement.  
  
Michael cut their escape route off the train station, closely followed by five of his men. He’d smiled viciously and ordered for Castiel and Samandriel to be dragged to the bathroom of the train station.  
  
He’d locked the door and proceeded to slap Castiel across the face spitting about how he had saved him and this is how he paid Michael back for his kindness. Castiel remained silent.  
  
He had then walked towards Samandriel and grabbed him forcefully by the hair, throwing him to the floor of the bathroom and kicking him twice.  
  
“Stop,” Castiel had shouted, and Michael’s smile grew, but he did stop, hauling Samandriel back to his feet and framing his face with both hands as the boy clutched at Michael’s forearms weakly.  
  
“You’ve been a good whore,” Michael had said softly, looking Samandriel over with a slight frown on his face, but there was no concern, only annoyance, like he had just one of his toys and could easily get a new one. “Such a pity to see you go.”  
  
The next thing Castiel knew Samandriel gasped in shock and fell to his knees in front of Michael, knife buried to the hilt in his stomach. Michael had pushed him back with the sole of his shoe and the boy had fallen on his back, laid down on the dirty tiles as Castiel shouted his lungs out, before his yells morphed into sobs and he gave up, sagged against Michael’s men.  
  
That hadn’t been enough for Michael apparently, because the next thing he did was beat Castiel up to an inch of his life as a punishment. And when he was done, Castiel’s face swollen up and bloody, fractured ribs and internal bruising, he had taken Castiel’s chin in one hand and stared at him right in the eye.  
  
“Be a good whore, boy. Otherwise you’ll be looking at your destiny,” he murmured and then left Castiel wheezing on the floor, looking at the corpse of his friend, his lover while he sobbed.  
  
So, yeah, in Castiel’s understanding, caring was not a good thing. Caring meant danger and he should run. Run for the hills and leave Dean Winchester at the mercy of fucked up lawyers and judges who sometimes liked to leave cigarette burns and red welts across backs.  
  
Except he couldn’t.  
  
When Castiel had first arrived to what Balthazar liked to call the garrison, one of the older people there that did accounting for Michael – Uriel, he thinks was is name – had taken one look at him and shook his head. “You’ll have problems with this one," he had told Michael. “He seems too… caring," he'd spat out the word like a curse.  
  
“He’ll manage,” Michael had thrown back.  
  
Uriel was right and if the bastard wasn’t dead for stealing from Michael, Castiel could probably pat him on the back and buy him a cold beer.  
  
And the worst part is that he didn’t even know why he cared about Dean.  
  
With Samandriel it had been the illusion of love and the sex and the way he would let Castiel take care of him like he used to do to his younger brother (which is not as fucked up as it sounds).  
  
With Dean there’s no illusions of love and no sex (yet) and Dean can handle himself. He’s the kind of guy who prefers to take care more than to be taken care of.  
  
Maybe it’s his freckles. Angel’s kisses, his mother used to tell him, booping his nose and smiling softly.  
  
Or his eyes, so green that sometimes, under the right light, they’d take Castiel’s breath away and that is a great deal coming from a whore such as himself.  
  
Or maybe it was his lips and the way he licks them before he speaks, bites them when he’s nervous. How they stretch over his teeth, how he quirks them when he’s trying not to laugh, how he presses them together when something’s wrong or he’s worried.  
  
It could be the way his jaw works when he’s frustrated or mad. The way he walks, like a cowboy in an old western due to his bowlegs that are just perfect. His collar bone, his adam’s apple and the way it bobs in his throat, how it’s just mesmerizing to look at when Dean throws a shot back.  
  
His hands and his biceps and his hair and the way his eyes crinkle in the corner and his pop culture references that Castiel misses every time and his deep voice and his nerdiness and the way he talks softly on the phone with his brother and assures him that he is okay, asks for him not to worry.  
  
And that’s when Castiel realizes how far gone he is for this one guy. The only guy Michael had told him specifically not to fuck, because apparently Castiel is a masochist with a death wish.  
  
That’s also when he realizes how fucked he is.  
  
«»  
  
Everything seems to be going fine, and that, in Castiel’s experience is never a good thing. Things just don’t go fine in his life.  
  
Castiel and Dean still go out for lunches sometimes or to the movies while Castiel tries to keep him at arms-length for both their sakes. Dean becomes highly requested for and Michael seems happy enough with that. He stills makes Cas go there every other week to pin him down with a single look and drill him for answers. “So have you been keeping your dick to yourself? Are you being delusional again? Can I trust you? Do I need to call Zachariah? Any extracurricular activities lately?” and on and on, until he’s happy enough.  
  
The shitstorm hits in a good day. It’s December and cold as balls outside. Cas manages to get home at maybe five a.m., feeling sore and filthy.  
  
His apartment building is a nice one. Nothing fancy with an alarm code and a doorman, but it doesn’t smell like cat’s piss and it’s always pristinely clean, with an elevator where everyone minds their own business and the walls are thick enough so you don’t hear what people are getting up to in their homes. Thank God, because the last place he lived in, the walls were so thin he could hear his front door neighbors going at it at three in the morning and imagining seventy years old having sweaty sex was not one of Cas’s favorite hobbies.  
  
But this is nice. He gets a bathroom with an actual tub all to himself, a bedroom and an office and a kitchen well equipped for when he’s in the mood to cook.  
  
He passes Mrs. Redford in the lobby and waves, smiling nicely like it’s socially demanded.  
  
“Oh, there you are. I hope your friend is okay.”  
  
Cas stops dead in his tracks. “Friend?”  
  
“Oh yes, a most charming man said you gave him a key to your apartment but forgot to give him a downstairs key.”  
Fuckfuckfuck. This cannot be happening. He thought he was good. Michael wouldn’t send a hit man to murder him in his own house. He can’t have done it because he and Cas were good. He has been good. He’s about to turn tail and get in the next train to fuckthatville when Mrs. Redford speaks again.  
  
“Is he your boyfriend dear? Don’t worry, I’m a modern woman those things don’t bother me.” She chuckles tightening her cardigan over her slightly curved shoulders. For eighty years, Mrs. Redford is holding her own. “Such green eyes on that one. It’s a good combination for you,” she decides. “There’s something to be said about strong men with intense eyes.” She pats his cheek with a kind smile before getting in the elevator and riding up to her apartment, mail in hand.  
  
Castiel takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. Jesus, he almost had a heart attack.  
  
He slips the phone from his pocket and hits speed dial three.  
  
It rings three times before the other person answers.  
  
“Cas.”  
  
“Hello, Dean. May I know where you are?” he inquires, small smile on his face as he hits the button to call the elevator back down.  
  
Dean breathes into the phone for a couple of seconds before he awkwardly says, “Uh, your apartment.”  
  
Castiel presses his lips together. “If you missed me so much you could’ve called like a normal person. No need to commit a felony.” He gets in the elevator and presses two, leaning against the side of the lift.  
  
He can hear Dean huff a laugh on the other side and Castiel holds his phone closer to his ear.  
  
“You know me. Just can’t get away from you and your baby blues.”  
  
“Careful there, Winchester. You’ll make me think that you’re really interested,” he throws back.  
  
“Who says I’m not?” he challenges and holly hell fuck his life, the one beautiful guy he can’t fuck, can’t even get too close to without ending up floating on the river is flirting with him, just enough challenge in his voice to make it sound serious.  
  
Castiel is so tempted to take him up on it.  
  
He decides to change subject before he barges in his own house and pins Dean to a wall and shows him all the dirty things he can do with his tongue.  
  
“May I know why you suddenly decided that breaking into my house was such a good idea?”  
  
The elevator comes to a stop and Castiel pushes the hideous orange door to get out (seriously, who thought that was a good color?).  
  
“Why? Are you afraid of me finding your porn collection?”  
  
“You’re deflecting. And I am a whore. I have no need of a porn collection,” he points out.  
  
“Touché.” A pause. “Are you coming home soon?”  
  
Castiel ignores the thrill about the word home and proceeds down the hallway. He’s a whore; he doesn’t get someone who worries about when he’ll get home.  
  
“I am there now.”  
  
The call gets disconnected and Castiel frowns slightly at his phone, taking out his keys and grabbing the right one, but Dean beats him to it, opening his door wide.  
  
“I fed your fish,” he offers, stepping aside to let Castiel pass, that is, when he shakes himself out of the stupor that Dean Winchester opening the door to his house with a smile causes.  
  
“You fed my fish?” he says dumbly, taking off his trench coat and hanging it in the coat rack (he’s classy enough to have one of those).  
  
“He seemed hungry."  
  
Castiel nods slowly. “Perhaps you were projecting on my fish. If you wanted you could’ve gotten something from the fridge.”  
  
“Oh thank God, I’m starving.” Dean closes the door after him and moves to the kitchen. He’s not wearing shoes.  
  
That’s… weird and oddly considerate of him. Castiel’s mother always made him take off his shoes when he got home. He looks down to his black shoes wet from the puddles on the floor and the light rain he caught on the way home.  
  
He takes them off and sets them beside Dean’s boots, lining them perfectly so they are just right and then doing the same to Dean’s boots which were thrown haphazardly.  
  
He walks into the kitchen to see Dean sitting on the table in the middle of it, sandwich that's oozing mayonnaise, if he isn’t wrong, clutched between his hands as he chews and stares at it like the answers to the universe are hidden in the lettuce and bacon and ham? He’s not sure what is that he stuffed in it, but it seems mighty good right about now.  
  
“Hey, I made you one,” he says, pushing a plate towards Castiel. “Do you have OCD or something? This is so clean it’s disturbing.”  
  
Castiel rolls his eyes and lets himself fall to the chair opposite to Dean’s.  
  
“I do not suffer from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I merely like things organized a certain way,” he corrects and Dean takes his turn rolling his eyes.  
  
“That sounds like something someone with OCD would say,” he argues, taking another huge bite of his sandwich, jaw working viciously and Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows it down.  
  
Personally, he never had a food kink, but if he spends enough time with Dean Winchester he’s sure he’ll develop one.  
  
He carefully picks up his sandwich and takes a bite at it, repressing the moan that wants out because that is a fucking good sandwich. He decides to ignore Dean for the next minutes in favor of this piece of culinary art he holds between his hands. Eating it faster than he remembers eating anything in his life. It’s that good and Castiel didn’t even know sandwiches could be that good. He’s licking his fingers clean from the mayo that got in them when Dean clears his throat, making him pop the pad of his thumb out of his mouth and smile sheepishly at him.  
  
Dean’s blushing a little, pupil’s blown wide. “Good?” he asks, voice maybe a little lower than before.  
  
“Your sandwich making skills are admirable,” he offers.  
  
Dean blushes a shade brighter. “Thank you,” he mutters ducking his head and looking back at his own sandwich, all coy and cute.  
  
He wants to ask Dean why he broke in his apartment and how he did it, but he still fills filthy and constricted in his suit, so he gets up slowly from his chair and looks Dean in the eye.  
  
“I’m taking a shower and you’re staying right here,” he tells him when he opens his mouth for a comeback.  
  
“You’re no fun.”  
  
“I’m plenty of fun,” he says matter-of-factly, “now eat your sandwich.”  
  
Castiel goes to his room and the joined bathroom, thank heavens for that, stripping down and taking a quick (cold) shower before he hops back out and dresses in sweatpants and a t-shirt. He scrubs a towel through his hair making it messier and sighs when it doesn’t go down like he tries to coach it to do.  
  
When goes back Dean’s still sitting in the kitchen, looking down at the table intently.  
  
“Now you’ll tell me why you felt the need to break into my apartment.”  
  
Dean looks up. “You look good all laid back and comfortable.”  
  
“Dean,” Castiel huffs, a warning for him to get on with it already.  
  
“Okay, okay.” He breathes; “I, uh, am being stalked. Sort of."  
“By one of your clients? That can easily be dealt with. I’m sure if you t-“  
  
Dean shakes his head; “An old client of mine. His name’s Alastair.” Dean breathes slowly, wiggling around in his seat to make himself comfortable. “He, uh, he likes to hurt and scar. I used to do it because he paid me a lot. Triple than everybody else.” He swallows hard, chancing a look up at Cas who’s trying really hard to rein in his Godly wrath and not kill the bastard. “I think he wasn’t too happy when I just disappeared. I was going to the Roadhouse and he was there, followed me in his car and I couldn’t go home. Managed to lose him and was close to your place. And I thought ‘hey Cas has a garage where I can hide baby and he won’t mind right’. So yeah, I’m sorry.”  
  
Castiel’s quiet for a while, taking in what Dean just said to him. Police is completely out of the question. So, the only other option left is Michael.  
  
“We need to talk to Michael. If there’s one thing he is, it's possessive of his whores.” He mutters, “He’ll get rid of the problem.”  
  
Dean looks at him hopefully. “You think so?”  
  
Cas nods and takes his phone out, dialing the number of Michael’s office.  
  
“Mr. Goodson’s office, how may I help you?” Charlie’s chipper voice asks from the other hand.  
  
“Charlie, could you put him on the line?” he requests.  
  
“Hello to you too, Cas. He’s in a meeting right now. But I can take a message.”  
  
“It’s urgent, Charlie,” he presses, hearing the girl sigh on the other side.  
  
“Okay, but just because you’re my favorite,” she sing-songs. “I do not want to do this, the dude he’s meeting with gives me the creeps.”  
  
“Wait, what dude,” Dean pipes in.  
  
“Is that Winchester?”  
  
“Yes. What dude?” Dean dismisses her.  
  
“Wow, aren’t you a pile of sunshine today,” she quips.  
  
“Charlie this is important. What dude?”  
  
“I dunno. He’s tall and has a nasally voice, smells like cigarettes and blood. Scruffy, looks like he can kill you with a flick of his wrist.”  
  
Dean turns panicked eyes back at Castiel.  
  
“Is his name Alastair?” Castiel chances hoping, praying it’s just some old creep.  
  
“Yeah, how did you know?”  
  
“Fuck,” he mutters, okay, okay, this can still be good. Maybe Michael already knows and is threatening him to stop it. “What are they talking about?”  
  
“I’m not supposed to-“  
  
“Charlie, this guy is evil. It’s a matter of life or death.”  
  
“Wow, dramatic much? Hang on a sec, I’ll see what I can do.”  
  
There’s the distinct signal of someone typing on a keyboard before Charlie lets out a whoop of success and says, “I’ve got a connection. Hacked into the server and I’m using Michael’s computer to listen to it. Uh, they’re talking about Dean. Saying something about a contract. Michael’s saying he won’t mind giving away weekends.” Pause. “I think they’re talking about signing a contract which says Dean’ll work for Alastair on weekends. They’re saying they’ll forge your signature or something. I think they’re shaking hands now.” There’s the sound of a door opening and Charlie typing away.  
  
“Charlie was it?” they hear a man ask. “What a lovely name. See you another time, Charlie.”  
  
There’s a pause in which Charlie breathes heavily on the phone.  
  
“Fuck that was scary. I don’t know what the hell you got yourself into, but my advice is that you get out of it as soon as possible,” Charlie advises. “Let me just-." There’s more typing. “Alastair works for Lucifer, Michael’s brother, and he’s into some shady stuff. Got a lot of murder suspects under his belt, complains filed for violence and I think he’s an interrogator. That’s what he’s listed at in Lucifer’s phony company. Dean, I love you, but my advice is: run. Right now. I’ll do the same.” The phone disconnects and Dean’s left staring up at Cas panicked and almost hyperventilating.  
  
He gets up from the chair making it clatter to the floor. “We need to go. Now.” he urges, pacing around. “I can’t go back, Cas. I can’t.”  
  
“We’ll die,” he says. “It’s impossible to run.”  
  
“You don’t know that." Castiel gets up, suddenly angry.  
  
“I don’t know that? I don’t know that! I know that better than everyone else," he yells. “They killed Samandriel, they’ll kill you too, or worse they’ll torture you. You don’t have any idea what they’ll do.”  
  
Dean stopped pacing, wide eyes focused on Cas.  
  
“Who’s Samandriel?”  
  
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.  
  
He takes a step back, scrubs a hand through his face.  
  
“He was my-." He thinks better of it, because the titles boyfriend, lover, partner don’t fit what Samandriel was. “He was mine,” he settles by saying, “and I was the one who had to bury him and tell his mother that he was dead. That they had killed him in a dirty bathroom right in front of me before they beat me to shit.”  
  
“This is different,” Dean says and he honestly does not understand what he has just been told.  
  
“How?”  
  
“What happened with Samandriel?”  
  
“A client hit him. He told Michael. Michael didn’t want to do anything about it, so he decided to run away.”  
  
“This is different,” Dean insists again “Michael was expecting Samandriel to pull something stupid. He doesn’t know we know, right? So we could just… disappear.” He rubs the back of his neck before turning back to Cas. “If you want to come, of course.”  
  
He can’t do it. He can’t. He’ll die and then what? THEN WHAT?  
  
But, Dean’ll go and Cas will get blamed for it. It’s between dying and maybe escaping a life of spreading his legs and fake moans.  
  
He swallows. “I’ll go. But we have to think this through. Make sure no one knows.”  
  
Dean nods “Do you think he’ll follow us across states?”  
  
Castiel presses his lips together. “He might.” Michael is certainly man enough for that. But maybe he won’t mind if two of his whores slither away.  
  
Dean nods again, taking all in, displaying it in head as to assess the situation the best way possible.  
  
“Okay. I think I know what we’ll have to do,” he declares, and Castiel can practically feel the want of getting away sizzling in his veins. “Oh and Cas,” Dean calls, going around the table and right into Cas’s personal space, “thank you for doing this.”  
  
And then he kisses him. Just like that. A hard press of his lips that’s a little desperate and a little excited. And what the hell, in the next twenty four hours Castiel’ll either die or be a free man, so he kisses right back.  
  
«»  
  
Dean’s plans are pretty simple. He organizes it with Benny over the phone, asking him to gather around a few friends of his, ones that aren’t afraid of Michael Goodson or that have been wronged by him, which is not really hard to find. And he also calls Charlie for a little favor.  
  
They’re supposed to go when the shitstorm Dean concocted hits.  
  
As simple as that, Dean’ll drive them off this God forsaken city and across states until they’re nice in safe in the other corner of America, Mexico or Canada. Cas’s going for Canada, actually.  
  
It starts three hours after Dean makes his calls.  
  
Charlie makes the power fail in Michael’s building, throwing down the backups for good measure and cracking all the computers. She passes all the information about every single shady business Michael has ever done into a flash drive and mails it to a post box in the middle of nowhere, where a reporter is supposed to pick it up and then another one to the police station.  
  
And just as the blackout hits the imposing building, Benny and his friends have some fun with Michael’s properties, trashing his car, his house and his summer house. Everything that Michael owns in this city gets broken or set on fire. Benny’s friends being smart enough to run away before either Michael or the police can get there.  
  
And that’s when Dean and Cas get in baby and drive off through a back road, all dirt and no asphalt, Dean’s baby hiccupping her way through.  
  
“I can’t believe that actually worked,” Dean breathes, laughing a little hysterically.  
  
“Don’t jinx it,” Castiel hisses at him, nails digging into the seat under him and all senses on high alert.  
  
Dean’s phone shrills and Castiel jumps for it.  
  
“What?” he asks nervously.  
  
“He’s going after you,” Benny urges through the receiver. “I’m sorry, brother. I hope you get out okay.” The phone disconnects again.  
“They’re after us.”  
  
Why in the hell did people feel the need to say ‘What’s the worst that could happen’ in situations like this.  
  
Dean presses his lips together.  
  
A black sedan (wow, cliché much) appears out of absolutely fucking nowhere, behind them, speeding up and getting too close.  
  
“What time is it?” Dean asks.  
  
“Why the fuck do you need to know the time for?” Cas throws a worried look behind his back again. There’s more than one.  
  
“Castiel,” Dean says, voice serious, demanding his attention. “What time is it?”  
  
He looks down on the phone he’s been clutching in one hand. “Eleven.”  
  
“The exact time!”  
  
“Eleven oh-three. Why the fuck do you-?" Dean cuts him off.  
  
“Do you know in movies when there’s a car chase and a car tries to get past the train railway before the train passes so the bad guys stay behind?”  
  
“You’re not-."  
  
“Hell yeah,” Dean confirms, hitting the gas hard, his baby leaving tire marks behind, spitting pebbles and sand to the car following them.  
  
“We’re going to die,” Castiel complains.  
  
Dean shifts gears and speeds up again “Most likely,” he acknowledges.  
  
He can see the train from here, speeding up towards them. The cancels are down and they are going to die.  
  
Castiel closes his eyes and does something he hasn’t done in a long while. He prays.  
  
Please God, please give me one more chance, I can right my life.  
  
He hears the sound of the train getting closer and closer, Dean’s car purring with the effort that it’s taking her. The train whistles loudly and the sound starts fading away.  
  
Castiel opens his eyes and Dean’s laughing maniacally because they actually fucking did it. He throws a look back and the sedans are on the other side still.  
  
Dean drives them a couple more meters before he drives his car to another side road, hiding it away behind some bushes and trees. He kills the engine.  
  
Holy mother of hell they fucking did it. He laughs, turning to Dean and smiling widely.  
  
“That was awesome,” Dean breathes out, panting through the adrenaline racing through his veins.  
  
Cas swats him on the arm. “Dean Winchester do not to that to me ever again,” he chastises but he’s smiling because wow, that’s the stuff of movies right there. He takes a deep breath. Tries to calm down. “Now what?”  
  
“Now they’re going to follow this road and find our car burnt to a crisp, crashed into a tree.” He smiles.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I got it covered. They’ll think we’re dead and we can go away.”  
  
“I think you were wrong,” Castiel declares and Dean frowns at him, opening his mouth to object, Cas beats him to it; “You’re the smart one.” And then he’s leaning in and sealing their mouths together.  
  
After that, there’s no more talking.  
  
«»  
  
It’s Christmas Eve and Castiel’s pretty sure that they’ve crossed two states by now.  
  
Dean’s stretched on the front seat, head in Castiel’s lap and fast asleep after twenty hours of driving. He looks good like this. Chest rising and falling in even breathing, eyes closed and face relaxed. He has one hand tucked under Castiel’s thigh, using him as a pillow and the other fisted in the fabric of his pants.  
  
He looks at peace, as cliché as that sounds.  
  
Cas runs a hand through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp and the man practically purrs in his laps, snuggling closer. Badass Dean Winchester is a fluffy kitten, who knew.  
  
“Dean,” he calls softly, nudging at his shoulder. Dean grumbles a bit but remains asleep.  
  
They’re both tired, and Castiel is afraid that if he keeps his eyes closed much longer he’ll crash them into a tree.  
  
“Dean,” he calls a little bit louder, poking the younger man in his ribs.  
  
“What?” he complains, grunting with the effort of getting up.  
  
“I’m tired. We should stop.”  
  
Dean sighs and rubs at his eyes, blinking against the sunshine filtering through the windshield.  
  
“Okay. Just pull over in the next motel or whatever,” he mumbles, voice sleep rough. “We can at least stop for Christmas.”  
  
As if on cue, Dean’s cell phone starts shrilling.  
  
“Heya Sammy.” Dean smiles into the receiver. “Yeah, I know.” A pause “No I won’t make it… Yeah, I’m okay don’t worry about it. I’m with Cas.” Sam says something and Dean blushes. “Shut up, bitch. Go braid your hair or something. Is Jess there? Put her on then. Hey Jess, take good care of him, okay? No, sorry. Yeah, maybe next year.” He smiles a little and then snorts, sneaking a look at Cas. “Yeah, I’ll do that. No, ew. I didn’t need to know that. Put Sam back on. You take good care of that girl. She’s a keeper. Yeah, Merry Christmas too.”  
  
“Everything okay?” he asks, taking a quick glance at Dean. He has yet to develop the ability to stare at the passenger’s side for five minutes straight without a single glance at the road and managing not to crash.  
  
“Yeah. Sammy was being a little bitch.” Dean pockets his phone. “Okay, if I’m not wrong, there’ll be a motel in the next exit. Not exactly the Ritz but I think it’ll cut it.” He yawns stretching his arms over his head as much as the car allows.  
  
The motel is called ‘Little Heaven’ and it’s as much as a seedy motel as Castiel has ever seen. The parking lot is littered with beer bottles and candy wrappers as well as a few condoms and Castiel’s pretty sure that’s a high heeled shoe right there.  
  
The man at the check in desk has a Santa’s hat place on his head and an unimpressed expression on his face, not sparing them a second glance before getting back to playing Solitaire on the computer.  
  
Dean leads him to the room on the third floor and yup, it’s a seedy motel. There are two beds against opposite walls, each of them with a nightstand near it and no space for anything else. The beds seem freshly made and there’s a tiny television that has news channels and Spanish channels showing re-runs of dramatic soap operas where everyone talks too loud and exaggerates too much.  
  
Dean sighs and throws his duffel on top of one of the beds “Home sweet home,” he mutters.  
  
Castiel walks slowly into the room, depositing his duffle on the other bed.  
  
“It doesn’t look very Christmas-y does it?” he observes.  
  
Dean shrugs, grabbing the nightstand and pulling it away.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“Well, that bed is all the way over there. And this bed is all the way over here. And it is cold as fuck, so I’m joining the beds to share body warmth.”  
  
“Actual cuddler Dean Winchester," Castiel mutters, but grabs the nightstand on his side and pulls it away.  
  
“I do not cuddle.”  
  
“You are a cuddly bear. You are a serial cuddler,” he teases, pushing the bed to the center as Dean does the same. The beds fall into place together and Dean pouts at him.  
  
“I am a manly man. I do not cuddle. It’s merely a survivor’s technique to not die of hypothermia,” he argues, smile tugging at the corner of his lip.  
  
“Whatever you say, honey.”  
  
“Did you just honey me?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Dean grabs him by the wrist and pulls him forward.  
  
“You’re insufferable.”  
  
“And you still put up with me,” he points out, jabbing Dean on the ribs with his finger.  
  
“Whatever. We should get a shower. You know to save water and stuff.”  
  
Cas smiles, tugs him forward and kisses him once, pulling away quickly. Once you get him going, you can’t stop him.  
  
“Fine. But I’m not having sex with you in the shower,” he pulls him by the hand, making Dean trip all over himself behind him.  
  
“Why not?” he half whines.  
  
“Baby,” he mutters, getting his ass pinched in return. “It’s winter and the tiles are cold. I dunno about you but I do not want to freeze my ass. I might blow you though. If you’re good.”  
  
Dean beams wrapping his arms around his waist and hooking his chin over his shoulder. He kisses his neck.  
  
“You’re the best,” he says.  
  
“And you’re easy,” Cas throws back.  
  
It’s been years since Cas had a Christmas with anyone. He normally spent it alone, in his house, zapping through channels and Christmas specials that were way too bullshit-y for him, until he'd settle with a book and wait for the time to go by.  
  
This, in comparison, is nice. Dean pulls him into the tub, hardly large enough to fit both of them, and kisses the breath out of him, laughing every time he tries to back Cas up against a wall and Cas swats at his chest. He doesn’t laugh when Cas backs him up against the cold tiles, only hisses at him and mutter something about ‘getting the point jeez, Cas’.  
  
Cas does end up blowing Dean, practically sucking his brains through his dick if the shaky legs and heavy panting are anything to go by, before he pulls Cas back up his body and kisses him clumsily, hand reaching down to return the favor. Which he does spectacularly, with just the right amount of pressure and flick of his wrist. Cas ends up with his forehead on Dean’s shoulder and leaving a few nail marks across his back.  
  
They kiss lazily until the hot water runs out and they are forced to jump out of the tub, wrapping themselves in towels and getting dressed as fast as humanly possible, before the water can freeze on their skin.  
  
Dean finds a Spanish channel that has a Christmas special on, where everyone is either giving birth, having sex, or discovering they’re not actually the father of the child – and someone gets slapped at some point.  
  
Dean excuses himself in the break and goes out of the room, to come back with a bag full of candy and spray paint?  
  
“Where did you get that?” Cas sits up better on the bed, ignoring the television and Esmeralda’s dilemma in who to choose out of four suitors. Girls named Esmeralda on TV are always whores like that.  
  
“You don’t want to know,” Dean mutters, taking one of the cans and shaking it before he stars vandalizing the wooden door that leads to the bathroom.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
Castiel watches Dean work, painting the door in a shade of green and making a… tree?  
  
“You said it didn’t look Christmas-y,” he explains, giving the final touches before grabbing two different cans, one in each hand and starting making little balls across the tree, and then another one to paint the star on top. He praises his work before stepping back with a grin. “What do you think?”  
  
“You’re a child.” Castiel shakes his head, smiling slightly. “I quite like it though.”  
  
Dean beams at him. “Christmas-y enough for ya?”  
  
Castiel nods solemnly. “Can I have candy now?”  
  
Dean snorts and throws the bag on his lap, before joining him back up on the bed, and burying his hands in the candy coming up with a bunch of them, dumping them in his lap and ripping the wrappings of a Mars bar before shoving it in his mouth.  
  
“So, what did I miss?”  
  
Castiel unwraps a Twix carefully. “Emilia gave birth to twins and Roberto is not their father. Esmeralda’s grandma slapped her in the face and Pedrito is in the hospital because he got run over by a car. I’m pretty sure he’s Alberto’s bastard though. And you just asked to hear me say the names in Spanish didn’t you?”  
  
Dean smiles saucily at him, opening his mouth to say something lewd. Castiel shoves a twix bar in his mouth instead. “Shut up. You’ve already got your orgasm. We can have Christmas sex tomorrow.”  
  
“Cas,” Dean whines.  
  
“I’m tired and you’re tired, so shut up, eat your candy and let me watch this.”  
  
“You don’t even like this,” Dean complains.  
  
“Shhh, you did something nice, don’t ruin it by being a baby.”  
  
“I’m not a baby.” He sulks, wrapping his arm around Castiel’s shoulders and pulling him down on the bed, so they are both comfortable enough to watch whatever this soap opera is called and then go to sleep.  
  
Dean falls asleep first, head leaning against Cas’s shoulder and drooling a little, which, ew, but not by far the worst bodily fluid Castiel had on him.  
  
And that’s an exciting idea. He never will have some john’s bodily fluids on him ever again. He can choose who he’ll sleep with and who he won’t sleep with.  
  
Michael’s not hanging the threat over them anymore. Rumors say that he may be going to court, answer for all his crimes, which include fraud, embezzlement, solicitation, murder, assault and battery, destruction of property, etc.  
  
Alastair was found dead on some old warehouse. Either Michael killed him in frustration or Lucifer killed him for making deals with his brother behind his back.  
  
It’s not Castiel’s problem anymore and it’ll never be again.  
  
His current problem is how to maneuver Dean Winchester under the covers without waking him and then convince him to visit Canada.  
  
They don’t really know where they are going next (Canada, if Cas gets is way, which he might with a few blowjobs) but wherever it is, it’ll be wonderful. Just to think about all the new things he can do now that he’s not tied up to Michael or that city. He can go to France if he pleases. Learn how to play the violin. He has enough money in an offshore account to not worry too much for a while.  
  
And he knows that Dean’ll probably be along with him, because for as much as Cas had fallen all over himself for this one green-eyed man, the same seemed to have happened to Dean. Maybe, just maybe he’ll get to keep this one.


End file.
